Of Threads and Needles
by Girlbird
Summary: Éothain was Éomer's best friend. Brithwyn was the woman Éothain loved. Brithwyn loved another man. This is their story. A companion piece to Like Metal to a Smith.
1. A Bittersweet Age

1\. A Bittersweet Age

 _Éothain_

The heat of summer rolls down my back as I urge my horse into a canter, willing the wind from the motion to ease the blaze of the sun. Alongside me, Brithwyn does the same, her hair bouncing back from her shoulders, sprung loose from its haphazard plaits.

"Pity it's too hot too race," she says in a voice that somehow over the last six months of my absence has grown huskier, deeper than the girlish lilt I remember from before.

"You would lose, anyway," I retort with a grin.

"Never," she says, tossing her hair. "Someone has grown too big for his Rohirrim britches." She pulls ahead, and instead of nudging my horse to catch up, I hang back , watching her. For some reason, I am perplexed. At thirteen, three years younger to my sixteen, she seems suddenly an enigma. She is no longer quite the child I had grown up with, but neither is she a woman. Indeed, she is still clad like a child, her skirts, riding up around her knees, revealing bare legs and feet – she is riding bareback. The sight should be no different from the summers before, and yet it is – those legs, golden from months in the sun, are round and shapely. And though her tunic is loose, when she moves I catch a glimpse of two small but very present curves that certainly were never there before.

From the sight of her bare legs, I find it hard to tear my eyes away, and am disgusted with myself. She's a child. She's almost a woman. She's my friend.

"Éothain?" her voice breaks my thoughts and I realize she has slowed her grey mare – a borrowed horse - to a walk, waiting for me to catch up. "That scowl will get stuck on your face. Are you all right?"

I force a laugh. "I'm all right. Just thinking about something."

She studies me, frank as ever. "About what?" I don't answer, and she shrugs. "Fine." We ride on in silence for a while, though she glances at me curiously now and then, as if she expects me to speak. Finally, she says, "You've changed, Éothain."

It is my turn to shrug. "So have you."

"Yes," she replies. "Only perhaps not as much." She smiles a bit ruefully. "You're becoming a man."

After a moment, I nod, pleased but trying not to show it. She looks away, on to the horizon – we are coming up over a rise in the grassy hills. Beneath us, the land seems to stretch on down forever, the golden grass rippling slightly in the breeze, dappled in shadows where the light does not reach it.

"I expect you will not want to spend time with me anymore." Her voice has grown quieter than before.

I am taken aback. "What makes you say that?" Unexpectedly, my voice shakes and I feel my face turn a little red. _Béma._ I look down at my hands so that my hair obscures my face. Why is this suddenly so awkward?"

"Well," Brithwyn says slowly. "I've always marveled that you have thought to spend your time playing with me, when I'm a girl and – well I know how the boys have teased you all these years. But you've never treated me like a nuisance."

"You haven't been," I say. "Well, actually…" I add as an afterthought, grinning and reaching out to tug on a lock of her hair. She glares at me in mock-annoyance, then giggles. Sobering, she says,

"But the teasing – "

"That never bothered me before," I interrupt, "Why should it now?"

She sighs audibly. "I don't know. Perhaps you will come to find me an annoyance, even if you don't realize it, now that you're all grown up and are going to go _do things,_ important things. And when you find some girl you fancy, I know you will certainly not want me in the way."

She is right, a nagging doubt starts to take root in my heart. There may not always be a place in my life for her. Although right now I feel certain that I shall never find a girl who I will be willing to let tie me down in matrimony, there will come a time when my time spent in Edoras is few and far between. Still, I shake my head. "That's – "

She cuts me off. "It's the truth. Besides, people already talk. Of you and me. My mother – " she stops and shakes her head.

"Your mother, what?" I ask, impatient. I am growing curiously angry with this conversation.

"Nothing. Never mind."

"Brithwyn, maybe you are right that people will talk but I don't care!" I say hotly. "You are my best friend and nothing can change that, not even your mother, whatever she said."

Brithwyn looks at me, and her faces changes from the carefully blank mask she had been wearing into something wild and almost beautiful with her smile, the smile she has always seemed to reserve just for me. All of a sudden I feel wistful, remembering how she had been when I had first befriended her – only seven years of age, grieving over her father's death, solemn and shy. She had been this little thing with rosy cheeks and big brown eyes that were rimmed in red and swollen from weeping. I had been wild, dishonest, and sullen at ten years old, but when I saw her, I could not bear to see her crying. Something had changed within me, and I had made it my mission to draw out her smile, then her laugh. She had begun to tag along on my adventures. We had become inseparable. And we always will be, I insist firmly to myself. Always.

* * *

 _Brithwyn_

Sweeping my hair off my neck – it is sticking in the heat – I pull open the door to my family's little cottage. It creaks and bangs shut behind me as I slip inside, and I wince. The noise – pained and sudden and nervous – is akin to how I feel.

My mother's voice breaks the quiet from the other room – there are just two. "Brithwyn?"

Horse lords. I wince again. I had thought she had been sleeping, for she is not well and often sleeps during the heat of the day - but I suppose that the noise of my thoughtless entrance woke her.

"Yes, Mama, it's me."

After a moment, she hobbles into the room. "Dear one, what have you been up to?" she says, peering at me.

I sigh, not wanting to admit to where I have been. "Oh, just about."

"Where is your sister?"

"In the garden," I say. Isemay is supposed to be weeding and watering the vegetables, but when I walked by she was making a structure out of mud and sticking twigs in it to make it look like a castle-fortress. My baby sister is but seven years old, born just before my father's death. Away in battle at her birth, and dying before he made it home, he never knew her.

I look around. The room is in shadows and there is little air here and suddenly I cannot breathe. I go to the window, saying, "Mama, let's get some light and air in this house. You will feel much better. I don't know why you insist on shutting the house up like a coffin." I push open the shutters, and light floods the room. There is a slight breeze, and immediately I feel a bit calmer. I lean on the windowsill. "Better."

The feeling does not last. My mother is taking in my appearance – windblown, bedraggled, sweaty, and bare-legged – and even on her tired face, the disapproval shows. I bristle. "Mama, what?" I say, exasperated, even though I think I know exactly what it is she is going to say.

"Dear one, where have you been in such a state?" she says, her hands on her hips. Now, standing upright, she is a hint of the mother I remember from before my father's death – composed and serene even in high temper, loving but firm and able to make me shake when she wanted to. That woman has nearly gone, except in moments like this.

I sigh, squirming underneath her assessing gaze. "I was riding."

"With Éothain?"

I nod. "Yes - why?"

She heaves a sigh and comes to stand by me. Her face creases with worry now. "My darling, you must listen to me. You are no longer a child and you cannot play with Éothain as you used to – people will talk. And dressed like that – you are no longer a little girl and must not run around baring your limbs to the world. Do you see how that might complicate things?"

"Mama, yes – you've said all this before," I retort, "But it doesn't matter."

"Do you plan to marry him?"

"He is my _friend_ , Mama. And even if that were grounds for marriage, which it is not, he is hardly home and never will be. He's leaving again in a few days! He is not a husband for anyone. And for that matter, I am no one's wife. I am not old enough for _that_."

"I was fifteen when I married your father," Mama says. "Seventeen when I had you. You are almost fourteen and you have had your monthly bleeding. You are old enough to marry."

I let out an impatient huff. "Mama, Éothain is my dearest friend, and is it not right that I should allow myself the simple pleasure to go out and ride every now and then like we used to?"

Mama rubs her temples and goes to sit at the table. She looks harried and defeated again. "It is my fault, I suppose. I let you run wild when you were younger – I should have put a stop to it long ago, before it even truly started."

"Mama!" I protest, appalled.

"Bu I couldn't bring myself to. I thought – I saw how he helped you, made you laugh after your father – " she breaks off, and there are tears in her eyes, I notice. Again – still, after seven years, she can barely speak of it. Her shoulders are starting to shake, and I can't bear it. I go to her, kneel down and place my head on her lap.

"Mama, please don't cry," I murmur, "Don't."

She sniffs. "If your father was alive – it would be different for you and your sister."

"I know, Mama, you try very hard," I whisper. My throat is dry and tight. "Please don't do this right now."

"But as it is – I need you to stay home and help me around the house, help me with the weaving and the garden, take care of your sister. I can't do it on my own, I can't – I've tried so hard, but I can't – "

"I know, Mama, I know," I say, wanting to cry now too. I believe she does this unconsciously, but I cannot help feeling manipulated each time. But I cannot get rid of the guilt welling up inside me. "I will help you more, I mean to – I just get so crazy being cooped up here all the time, and so l _onely_." I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying and raise my head to look at her.

Her eyes clear and she smiles a watery smile of pity and love and worry. She places her hand on my cheek and strokes it. "I know, my darling, I know. If your father were here – if we had someone to provide for us, if – "

"If, if, if!" I snap, jumping to my feet, so suddenly fed up with this conversation, this pathetic side of my mother. "I am sick to death of ' _if'!_ Mama, things are how they are, and saying otherwise will not help rationalize them or change them!" I am livid. "And that goes for Éothain as well – he is the only thing that is good and pure and constant in my life, and I will not let that go! I won't! Sauron take your _ifs_!"

She looks as if she has been slapped. I cannot bear to see her anymore or be in this room, and I run out of the house, letting the door slam shut in an exemplification of all the emotion locked within me that I cannot find the means to express. My mother is right in much of what she says but she is also so very, very wrong.

One look at my face and Éothain knows something is amiss. He reads me so well. "Your mother?"

I sigh and look intently at my hands. "Yes." I have come to the stables, hoping to find solace. Instead, I have found Éothain, the very crux of my problems, but at the same time the only person I can talk to. It seems I cannot escape him. Perhaps I had known in my heart I would find him here, even hoped to do so.

"She is still not well?" he asks

"She sleeps, she barely eats, she shuts herself up in the house, barely even working, and then she has the nerve to berate me when I take a moment for myself…" my voice trails off and I shrug helplessly. I cannot find the words to describe my mother's condition, and neither can I bring myself to tell him what she has said about him. About us. What he might suspect is enough.

He bows his head and I realize again how he really has changed. This Éothain is slower to smile, although when he does he is still a boy. He leans his elbow against the wall. "I am sorry."

This starts me nearly to tears and I sniff furiously, trying to keep them at bay. His pity hurts too much. I do not want it. I want… what? What do I want?

I am crying now, and he pulls me into his arms without a word. "Hush," his voice strokes my ear. "I know."

I am suddenly aware of how strong his arms are, the muscles of his chest. The scent of him, too, is overpowering – pleasant, but overwhelming my senses. Still, I feel safer here than I have in years. But why am I suddenly noticing _him?_

"I know how hard it has been to take care of a mother and a sister your entire life," he says. "But you've been so strong about it from the beginning." He draws back to look at me, wiping a tear from my cheek with his thumb. I shudder out a breath.

"What else can I do?" I smile weakly. "I want so much more but there is nothing there for me to take hold of."

"I know," he sighs, and breaks away from me. I feel more alone than ever, watching him as he draws a circle in the sawdust with his foot then scuffs it out again. "If you were a man you could leave Edoras like I am going to. You could ride with the Rohirrim."

"And go to war?" I ask bitterly. "I have no desire to fight. I want… I do not know what I want. But I know that I do not want to experience hate or violence or destruction. I do not need any more death in my life. I live with it each day." I am crying again and I turn away, suddenly ashamed of my tears. He will never understand, this boy-man with his gold-red hair falling out of its braids to dance against his broadening shoulders. He might offer me one of those muscled shoulders to cry on, but he will never be able to offer me an escape from the life I lead. And inexplicably, I hate him for that, although he has done nothing wrong.

* * *

 _Éothain_

She came to me for comfort and she is pushing me away. I do not understand. What is this rift? Why will she not let me help her?

Her thin shoulders are shaking. I am helpless to do anything, and so I stand here like a fool, my hands awkwardly hanging. Finally, her tears subside – or rather, she pushes them inside her, shuts them away. When she turns to look at me, her expression is pinched and white and utterly void of emotion. Even her hands are still, held like they are made of iron rods. I have never seen such a sight.

I reach out to her as if to touch her. "Brithwyn – "

But she shakes her head. "Hush. I must go mind my sister and help Mama with supper." She starts to go, but I step in front of her path.

"Wait," I say, not really knowing what I want her to hear from me.

She tries to brush by me, but I am quicker. "Brithwyn, I am going away again after tomorrow. I will not be back for many months, maybe years. I do not want to carry with me the memory of you so very unhappy."

"Then don't," she snaps, then softens when she sees the effect of her words. "I'm sorry, Éothain."

"Is there anything at all that I can do?" I ask. "While I am here, before I go."

She shakes her head and looks at our feet in the dust. Hers are bare, tanned and dirty. Mine are in new leather boots, a gift from my father in honor of my coming training. I was so proud of them. He had sacrificed wages to pay for them, but the fact that we could even think to afford such luxuries shames me. I feel like crying, and am ashamed that I would fall prey to such weak feelings in front of her.

"Would you just think of me, every now and then, Éothain?" she asks finally. "I will do the same for you, you know I will."

I swallow a lump in my throat and nod. "Yes," my voice cracks a bit and I hang my head in embarrassment. She looks at me solemnly.

"I must go," she says softly and my heart breaks at her words. "I will say goodbye to you before you leave."

"We depart at first light, day after tomorrow," I say, and she nods, and leaves without another word.

* * *

 _Brithwyn_

The sun is rising, extending its pale tendrils over the horizon and into my eyes. I am huddled in my cloak even inside at the window, for the morning is chilly and my soul feels colder, more alone. I know that as I sit, unable to move, Éothain is preparing to travel. I see him in my mind's eye, buckling the girth on his horse's saddle, checking its security, scanning his belongings to make sure he has everything. He is precise, studied, analytical about these things. I can picture the way his jaw juts out in concentration, the exact furrow of his brow, the carefulness of his hands. His eyes must be clouded with sleep's remaining grip.

He will be expecting me. I told him I would be there to see him off. But I cannot bring myself to go to him, though I have risen at dawn with the intention of doing so. I want to see him, touch him once in parting. But I do not want to see him leave. I want him to stay. I want so many things.

* * *

 _Éothain_

We are preparing to move. My eyes scan my surroundings, looking for her, growing increasingly concerned when she does not appear. She said she would be here! She promised!

She did not promise in so many words. But she did say she would come.

Someone speaks to me and I turn my attention to the voice briefly. "What? Yes." I do not really know what they ask. A lump of cheese and bread meets my palm, followed by an apple in the other. I tuck the meal away for later and return to my task of looking, watching, waiting.

Then I see her. She is standing on the crest of the hill above us, a small solemn shape against the sky. I lift my arm to wave, to beckon her to come down, but she shakes her head. I look away, unwilling to let her or the others see my disappointment. I try to make my expression blank. But I can't. I look back up at her and call her name.

"Brithwyn."

She lifts her hand to wave, the briefest smile flitting across her face – I can barely see it in the distance. Then she turns and disappears over the top of the hill. Gone. Gone.


	2. How Things Change

2\. How Things Change

 _Three years later_ , _Edoras_

 _Éothain_

"Did you ever see such a beautiful thing?" I say, a smile breaking across my face as our company of newly-made riders of Rohirrim, escorted by a few old veterans, comes over a rise and the city of Edoras appears in the distance. "Home."

Beside me, Éomer, the young nephew of Théoden King, who trained alongside me at Aldburg, and who has won the seat of the Marshal of the East-Mark, young as he is, lets out a sound that is less optimistic. "It is home for you, but this place holds many sad memories for me, along with the good, and an ailing uncle who is also my king," he says. "My sister waits upon him like a nursemaid for an old man, the poor creature, doomed to a life of dark, dank sadness."

Four years my senior in age, Lord Éomer is twenty years my senior in his outlook. I suppose he has cause to be.

"Be that as it may," I remind him, grinning evilly, "At least you will be able to wash off the grime of the road. And about time, too! The flies will be saddened by the loss of your sweet scent, though."

He looks about ready to launch his fist at me for a moment, then his face splits into a grin that lifts the maturity off his face. "Your words ring true for you as well."

Together, we urge our horses ahead of the rest and canter down the rise, two young knights of Rohan, with the morning sun shining off our hair and our heads held proudly high. Today we are brave and strong and the world is ours.

Once fed, clean, and rested in my parents' home, I have time to do as I please for the first time in what seems like months. Poor Éomer has been received in the Golden Hall, and I am for once glad that I am not a lord and have no such formal obligations. After promising to be back for supper, I kiss my mother goodbye and wander through the village, wondering how nothing seems to have changed and yet I can feel slightly out of place in this home in which I was raised.

The market was this morning, and now in the heat of the afternoon vendors are packing up their wares and stalls, but a few let me browse, patiently waiting as I look. Hunfred, another young rider, falls into step beside me. We have spoken very little since we met on the road, but he is friendly and easygoing and I find that I like him and do not mind the company.

He is strong – any warrior must be - but built more slightly than I or Éomer. He is handsome, I suppose, with more gracefully-hewn features than mine. His manner is cheerful and he is always light-hearted, quick to jest, but he strikes me as quiet and brooding by nature, as if much of his laughing and jesting is put on for the benefit of others. He has a sensitive air underneath his bravado, and I confess I wonder if he has the true makings of a warrior. He seems as if he might be more at home elsewhere than on the battlefield – still I cannot pass judgment. We are all here for different reasons.

"Mercy, who is that?" he asks beside me, and startled, I raise my head to search out what has caught his eye. A girl. Of course.

I don't recognize her at first as she walks pasts me, not even seeing us watching. Long golden hair, tied back simply, a simple gown of grey broadcloth, holding a basket of colorful woven goods, back arching with the weight. Fine, delicate features, pretty enough, a well-formed figure. A younger girl, about nine or ten, trots behind her, struggling with more goods in her arms. I watch them, perplexed. The little girl glances behind at us, and a glimpse of that unmistakable freckled, heart-shaped face and large blue eyes under a wild tangle of flaxen hair and suddenly I know them both.

"Excuse me," I say to Hunfred, and go after Brithwyn and her little sister Isemay.

"Do you know them?" I hear him say but ignore him. I race to catch up.

"Brithwyn, Isemay," I call, and she and her sister stop and turn.

"Éothain, it is you!" cries Isemay, and she drops her bundle of goods and rushes towards me, arms outstretched. Laughing, I bend to pick her up and swing the little girl around. She is all legs and gangly arms.

"Hello, little goblin," I say, using my old pet name for her. "You've gotten so big, I wouldn't have known you."

"So have you," she said, drawing back to look at me. "You're all muscle-y and you've grown a beard."

"You'd better not grow a beard," I warn her. She giggles. "Then people would think you were a dwarf instead of a goblin."

"I'm not a goblin," she protests but is still giggling uncontrollably.

I set her down and turn to Brithwyn, expecting a welcoming smile and a happy embrace too, but she is only gathering up Isemay's dropped goods and shaking the dust off of them. Her face is a mask and she doesn't look up at me, her brown eyes shielded by long lashes and a bowed head.

I kneel beside her and help pick up the weavings. "A warm welcome from your sister, but not from you, it seems," I say softly so that only she can hear.

She raises those eyes to mine. "Welcome back, Éothain," she says loudly, coolly polite. "It has been a long time."

"How have you fared these past – what has it been, three years?" I ask, putting a hand on Isemay's shoulder and hugging her against me. She has gotten tall for her age. But it is the change in Brithwyn that holds my attention. Last I saw her, she was a girl. Now she is a woman, and serious. What does she see when she looks at me?

"Well enough," she says, but something in her tone startles me. "We must be going, though, if you'll excuse us."

"Well, let me at least walk you home and help you with your load," I say quickly. "Are you still living with your mother?"

"Yes," Brithwyn says shortly. "And much has changed since you have gone away. Please don't trouble yourself. We can manage. Come along, Isemay."

The girl looks from her elder sister's face to mine, her eyes sad and confused.

"It's no trouble at all," I protest, worried now by this cold behavior. "I was going that way before."

Brithwyn sighs, relenting, and together we parcel out the wares so they are more fairly distributed, me carrying the bulk of the weight. As I set off, I look back at Hunfred and find that he is watching us. He must have seen this whole exchange. Uncomfortable, I nod to him in farewell and turn away.

"Do you sell these at the market?" I ask, looking at the work. There are woven rugs, and skeins of woven cloth, the colors richly dyed, more vibrant then I have often seen, although I know little of fabric. The work is finer than I remember Brithwyn's mother making, but perhaps her mother is doing well.

"Yes, and Isemay helps me with the dying and the spinning," said Brithwyn. "Also, sometimes I get work in mending and altering clothes, from those who have coin to spare. But there are no great ladies but the Lady Éowyn at Meduseld, and she cares little for fine clothes.

I realize with a start that it is not Brithwyn's mother that does this work but Brithwyn herself. Of course.

"How is your mother?" I inquire quietly.

"Worse," Brithwyn answers bluntly.

Indeed, when we enter the little house, which is as shabby as I remember, although the garden outside is ripe with produce, there is a dank, sick air. Freya lies on a bed in the corner, her eyes squinting at us in the dim light, no doubt wondering who this third person is.

"Hello, Mama," says Brithwyn cheerily, setting down her basket in the adjoining room, where a loom is visible and no doubt Brithwyn works. I follow and set my load down beside hers.

"Hello, my dears," whispers the woman weakly as Isemay runs up to kiss her. "Who's here?"

"It's Éothain," I say, kneeling beside the bed. "Home from Snowbourne. How are you, Freya?" I take her thin, gnarled hand and kiss it in greeting and the woman grants me a small smile.

"Forgive me, my eyes are weak. It has been a long time."

"Mama," interjects Brithwyn. "Would you like to go sit in the sun a while? Since Éothain is here, perhaps he can help me carry you out and you can sit in the garden. It will do you good." She looks at me pointedly and I hurry to oblige, gently scooping up the woman, whose weight is featherlight and carrying her out the door that Isemay rushes to hold open. Brithwyn follows with a chair and together we settle her mother in the sun.

"Isemay, will you sit with Mama and shade her eyes?" Brithwyn asks. "I want to speak with our guest."

Isemay looks like she's about to protest, but one look from Brithwyn and she nods meekly.

Brithwyn takes my arm and leads me into the house. Warily, I follow. The tone in Brithwyn's voice is not a warm one. Once we are inside, and Brithwyn opens the shutters, allowing air and light to flow through the window, I open my mouth to speak.

"What is it? What is wrong?"

"With Mama? She's just...tired, and ill. Her eyes are too weak to sew, her spirit too weary to live. I take care of this family now."

"No, with you," I say. "Why are you so cold to me? I thought we parted as friends. What have I done to make you angry with me?"

She does not immediately answer and begins to fuss with the room, straightening it as best she can. I wait glumly. When she finally responds, her words come out in a rush of feeling.

"You walk in here as if we are expected to welcome you as if you've hung the moon and the stars in the sky, bowing down to you the hero, as if we've sat around just waiting for you to come back. But why should you? What have you ever done for this family? Were you here when Isemay fell from the roof and broke her wrist? When the both of them took ill with scarlet fever and the sickness took much of Mama's sight and I was left here trying to make do while carrying for them and fearing that they would die, or that I would take ill as well and we would all starve? When I had to work my fingers to the bone trying to make a living and raise my sister and pay the taxes and tend the garden and clean the house? We have a few helping hands every now and then but in these troubled times no one has much to spare. And now you come here, laughing, shining like the sun, and you will leave soon enough with the same careless smile, proud and untouched, and we will stay here only to continue in living death -"

She is crying, and turns around to hide her tears as if ashamed. I reach out and take her in my arms, unyielding even as her body shakes and she tries to turn and push me away.

"I'm sorry," I whisper in her ear. "I see how hard it has been for you while I have been away. I wish I could have prevented it, or change it now. Is there anything I can offer -?"

"No, there's nothing," she whispers, suddenly turning in my arms and burying her face in my chest. Her voice is small and vulnerable. "Just hold me a moment, Éothain. It has been so long since anyone has held me."

My heart seems to quicken as I become aware of the womanly curves that are suddenly pressed against my body, causing a warmth to spread through me like wildfire. She has grown beautiful, and the temptation to tilt her head up and kiss her is suddenly incredibly hard to resist. All at once I am brought back to that embrace in the stable last time I saw her. I had felt the same stirring in my body then, though at the time I was young and inexperienced. Now I am well acquainted with the signs of lust – but somehow with her it has always been stronger, even sweeter. Brithwyn sighs and softens against me and I am struck by a thought.

"If I married you – " I say, and she pulls away and looks at me as if startled. "I could help all this."

"Help?" she says and breaks away from my grasp. "The way my father helped my mother, always leaving for battle, gone for months, then dead? What good was it all for?"

"He died an honorable death in service to his homeland," I say, slightly offended.

"Damn your honor," said Brithwyn softly, and it is the softness that chills me. "I would rather have had a father. Isemay never knew her father. Why do you think she's so fond of you?"

"All the more reason for you to wed me," I say. She is blushing faintly, I realize, and I take it as a good sign. "Everyone always said that – "

"Everyone has forgotten," said Brithwyn sharply. "When I marry, and I must marry, it will be someone with a trade, a smith maybe, or even a farmer. Someone who will live a quiet, humble life and provide for us, and the Valar willing, someone who will love me a little. Would you give up your life as a Rider for me?"

I stop, sobered by the thought. Would I?

"Nay, Éothain," she says, suddenly tender. She places a hand on my cheek, startling me. "You have a life to lead, a purpose, a duty, a dream to chase, and I am not a part of it. You could never be anything but what you are."

"Then let me help you while I can. I swear to you I will do whatever I can to ensure your happiness, Brithwyn," I tell her solemnly, defeated but stubborn in my desire to help her, to keep her near me. "I swear to you with the same fealty I swore to Rohan."

She smiles at me, a furrow between her brows. "Oh, Éothain. You are too good. Forgive me."

"I have one request, though," I say, "In payment."

"What is it?"

I hesitate.

"Kiss me."

She looks at me with apprehension. "I cannot."

I hold up a hand. Wait. "I have thought of you so often these past few years, with nothing but tenderness. But I always pictured you as I left. Now, you are – " I stop, moved by her expression. She is struggling to smile.

"What?"

"More beautiful then I could have imagined," I say softly, tracing the line of her cheek. "I hope you know that."

She looks disbelieving and pained and happy all at once and my heart is breaking. "Éothain…"

"Kiss me. As a friend. Just once. I won't bother you again. We will be friends and go on as before, though I hope you will be glad to see me next time. Just once, Brithwyn, and only if you want to. I won't press you."

"Just once," she repeats, her lovely eyes searching my face. "All right. Just once."

She moves slowly, a hand, stained by dye and callused from work but still delicate, reaching up to cradle my face. I close my eyes as she rises on her tiptoes and her lips reach up to meet mine, chastely and timidly but somehow sweeter than any wanton kiss I have ever received. For a moment I forget everything and want to fall on my knees before her, to say that I will give up my calling for her and learn a trade, but all too quickly she draws away and I am brought back to reality. I have sworn an oath to serve my King and country and I will not be foresworn, even for a woman. Even for Brithwyn who is more than just a woman but a part of my soul.


	3. Hunfred

3\. Hunfred

 _Brithwyn_

"Excuse me, fair lady," says a mild male voice as I am kneeling in the garden, my hands covered in mud and dirt. I am sure that I am anything but lovely in this heat. The sun beats down harshly and my hair is plastered to my brow and the nape of my neck. My dress is my oldest work dress, stained with dye as well as covered in dirt and fraying at the elbows.

Curious, I look up to find the source of the voice. A young man, about my age or a little older, is standing at the gate. He smiles at me and I am struck by how handsome he is. Thick blond curls, worn shorter then most men I know, frame his face and he is clean-shaven, and his teeth are noticeably whiter than any other man's teeth I know. Whiter than mine, I am certain. Beneath the leather jerkin he wears, which bears the crest of Rohan and marks him as one of the Rohirrim, I notice that his shoulders are broad enough but his overall build is slim, a marked contrast from Éothain's powerful build.

I blush when I realize that I am comparing this man to Éothain, but then again, Éothain's torso is is the only man's torso that I have ever been close enough for me to...feel. I feel a twinge of regret in my chest at the memory of his proposal, and of my rejection, and of that solemn kiss. What could he have meant by it, after all these years of his absence? Surely it had been out of charity, out of a desire to help us, the gesture of a dear friend and nothing more... although he had told me I was beautiful, that he had thought of me often... A part of me still wanted to accept him. Would it be so bad, to wed him? I knew him better than anyone, or I had before he had left. He was such a part of my childhood, and once I had thought that we might be suited to one another. Surely he was handsome in a very different way from the man standing in front of me, and I liked the feel of his arms around me... but it was folly.

He had been my first kiss, however solemn and chaste it had been. How different from how I had imagined my first kiss would be. But I had never had time for the village boys, and boys they all were.

"It is a hot day," the man – he is a boy, really, in truth – continues, wiping the sweat from his glistening brow with the back of his hand. I am at once brought back to the situation at hand. "Might you have something – a cool drink - to offer a poor soldier?"

I raise my eyebrows. Really, now. "There is a well back the way you came," I respond sweetly, standing up and wiping my hands on my dress. I am a ragged, dirty, sorry sight but there's nothing I can do about it now. I point behind him. "Just there."

He grins sheepishly at my rebuke, but replies contritely, "I have no dipper, sweet lady, and I would never soil the waters of your well with only my grimy hand."

I put my hands on my hips. "There is a dipper by the well for anyone's use."

"I fear I need your guidance. Won't you come and show me?" He grins and bows slightly, gesturing to the way. "I must go and draw water on my own and such a labor would be sweetened by your company."

I smile, charmed in spite of myself. "Do you have a name, O flatterer?"

"Hunfred."

"Hunfred," I repeat, the name strange on my lips. I have never heard such a name before. "And where do you come from?"

"North, in the Wold," he replies. "This is my first time in Edoras."

"Oh," I say, "I have never met someone from the Wold." Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"You are the first woman I have met in Edoras," he replies with an easy smile.

"And what do you think of Edoras, now that you have seen it?" I ask, returning the smile because I cannot help it.

"It is lovely," he says, staring boldly at me so that I catch his implications. I look away, embarrassed at his forthrightness. "You have not told me your name, sweet lady."

"I am no lady," I respond, coyly avoiding the question. "How many ladies do you know who must dig in the dirt for their supper?"

"None. But then, I know no ladies at all. Surely a maid as beautiful as you must be a lady. No? Well then, sweet maid – won't you come get a drink from the well with me?"

I blush, inwardly furious with myself for it, then laugh, worn down. It is a strange sound to my own ears. I have not laughed in what seems like ages. "You are a smooth talker, Hunfred of the Wold. Yes, I will, and I will bring a pail to bring water back to my house. Give me but a moment."

I duck inside my little house – Mama is sleeping, thankfully – and grab the water jug and the little dipper that hangs on a nail beside it. Hurriedly, I squint at my reflection in the shiny metal sheet that serves us for a mirror on the wall. I smooth my hair and pinch my cheeks for color, hoping I look healthy and prettily disheveled, rather than as sweaty and bedraggled as I feel, and go out to join my smooth-talking new friend.

He takes my arm and together we walk the short journey to the well.

"You still have not told me your name," he says quietly. He looks at me with eyes that peep

through long lashes, eyes that are green and flecked with gold. These are a dreamer's eyes.

"Brithwyn," I say shyly. Why am I blushing? I shake my head at my own folly.

"Brithwyn," he says, not noticing my blush, or if he does, he makes no comment. "And are you married?"

I shake my head. "No, I'm not," I say. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I might have had to go have a word with your husband, that's all," he replies with a pointed look.

"Are you always this sure of yourself?" I ask as we reach the well. I am amused in spite of myself. He takes my pail and places it on the hook attached to the end of the rope and begins to lower it into the well.

"Always," he says, then grins that sheepish grin again. "Not at all. If you knew how frantic I feel at this very moment, then you could never ask the question."

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the way his muscles ripple as he pulls on the rope to raise the bucket, easily and fluidly. He is stronger than I would have suspected, given his rather slender build, but I suppose that deception would work well for him in battle, and he must move quickly. Oh, for the Valar, I should not be looking at him so hungrily. I am sure I am blushing redder than a sunrise.

I take the pail from the hook, trying not to slosh it all over him, and scoop water from the pail and offer the full dipper to him. He takes it gratefully and drinks, then pours a little into his hand and runs it over his brow. I smile as the drops trail down his tanned forehead in rivers from his curly golden hair, darkened by the water, and take the dipper from him to get a drink for myself. Our fingertips brush and a shock ripples through me, my body buzzing at his touch. His eyes meet mine and hold.

"Would you come for the evening meal?" I ask him shyly, knowing I am going to regret it in a moment. "Ours is a simple table, but we would be honored to have you share it, my mother and sister and me."

I wait, biting my lip. He'll say no. He'll say no. Brithwyn, you fool. Likely he just wants a kiss and a tumble behind the stables. Do _I_ want a kiss and a tumble behind the stables? Those lips look inviting. I know I am blushing. I know it.

But he smiles broadly and looks at me with that sweet green gaze. "I would like that very much."

Once we part at my doorway and Hunfred promises to come in the evening, I rush inside and immediately set to preparing a meal.

"Isemay!" I call several times, and she comes from the other room.

"What?" she asks, hands on her hips. "I was playing."

"I need you to help me. We have a guest for supper," I say. "And first we need to clean this horrible house."

"Who is it?" asks Mama from the bed.

"Éothain, of course," says Isemay. "Why else would she be blushing?"

I swat her on the head. "No, it is not. Another young rider in his company, Hunfred from the Wold. And I am not blushing."

"Not Éothain? But, it must be - "

"Hush. Not another word about him," I say, impatient and a little embarrassed. I have said nothing to anyone about Éothain's proposal and hope to keep it that way. "You will like our guest, I promise."

Isemay shrugs and goes to get the broom, but from the way her jaw sticks out I know she is still stuck on having Éothain for supper. I pay her no mind. I have little care at this moment for troublesome little sisters. My thoughts fly to instead a warm green gaze against golden skin, a flash of white teeth, finely-formed fingers brushing mine as they take the dipper from my hands.

—-

Hunfred easily charms my mother at dinner. I see her smile shyly, which I haven't seen for many months. Isemay sits sullen, but he manages to make her laugh and warm to him by the end of the evening, and then she is chattering away, like she does to anyone she likes and who has the patience for her boundless excitement. He laughs and listens to her attentively, but his eyes meet mine across the table and hold there, and my cheeks grow hot and my heart pounds so hard in my ears that I can scarcely hear.

He comes to calls again, and again, each time bringing flowers for me and my mother and once, a carved wooden horse for Isemay. But he doesn't reach out to kiss me, and my body singing and smarting for want of his touch, I begin to wonder if he ever will.

Yet one market day, Hunfred walks me home and we are caught in a sudden rainstorm. Laughing, we run through the streets hand in hand, dodging puddles and shrieking like children when the heavens open further and the rain pours down. Suddenly, Hunfred ducks into an overhang in a doorway and pulls me to him. We are standing so close that I can barely breathe for the nearness of him and I meet his eyes in shy anticipation. There is a burning look in his eyes that I do not quite understand and yet do not want to shrink from. He is saying something to me that I do not hear as his bare hands stroke my cheeks and smooth my wet hair off of my brow. Shivers shoot down my spine, and not from the cool rain. Suddenly he is kissing me, one hand sliding around my waist and pulling me hard against him while the other cups the back of my head and tangles in my hair. My eyes flutter shut as the sweetness of his mouth engulfs me and the roaring of our bodies grows louder as my stomach and breasts and pelvis meld against his own hard body. He presses me against the wall and kisses me more deeply, our mouths opening to taste one another more urgently. If not for him holding me upright I think I would crumple to the ground.

All too soon, he breaks the kiss, kissing me once more gently on the nose. I grin at him stupidly and look down at his chest. I want to bury my head in his shoulder and melt into him. He seems as speechless as me as he laces his fingers through my own and leads me out into the rain. I am glowing from within as we walk the remainder of the way home, scarcely noticing the rain that drenches us.

We are whispering shyly as he opens the gate for me and it takes me a moment to realize that Éothain is standing on our roof looking down at us through the rain. He is soaked to the bone in his shirt, holding thatching tools in his hand. When I raise my hand to him, he nods curtly and turns back to his task.

"Éothain," I call, "What are you doing?"

"Fixing the leaks in your roof for your mother," he says in return, but his gaze is directed at Hunfred: even through the rain it is cold and challenging. The tension is palpable. I bite my lip and look at Hunfred, who is staring up at Éothain with a furrowed brow. After a moment, Hunfred goes to the ladder and begins to climb.

"What are you doing?" Éothain asks sharply.

"Lending you a hand," Hunfred replies courteously. "If you will accept it."

"I am fine working on my own," Éothain replies without looking at him.

"The job will go faster with two," Hunfred retorts gently, although his shoulders are square and his jaw is set.

"I doubt it, my friend," is Éothain's brusque reply.

"Éothain, please," I call, wishing to end this show of manhood and knowing not how. "It is wet and miserable out and you will catch your death of cold. Let Hunfred help you. I will go inside and prepare you hot drinks."

Éothain looks annoyed but he says no more when Hunfred picks up a tool and begins to help. I nod in approval , though I cannot help but blush and bury my face in my knees as soon as I get inside and collapse in the doorway, my heart pounding with joy and embarrassment.

Later that night, Hunfred pulls me aside, out the door of the cottage. The rain has stopped and Éothain has left with scarcely a word to me and I am fretting over how to ease his temper and mend our friendship. I know not how.

"Brithwyn," Hunfred says seriously, his hand on my arm. "Have I misread your feelings for me?"

"What? No," I reply, confused that he should ask.

"Then is there something that I am missing regarding Éothain's relationship to your family?" Hunfred asks slowly, looking past me.

I heave a sigh. "It is complicated… a long story."

"I have time," Hunfred shrugs. His tone is of forced lightness. "Tell me. What claim does Éothain hold to your affections?"

"None! That is, I am not and have never been his sweetheart," I struggle and wish that Hunfred would take pity on me, but he does not. I squirm under his gaze. "Where to begin? Éothain and I are old friends. You knew that, I think."

Hunfred nods, biting his cheek as I have noticed he does when he is thinking.

"He is a big brother to Isemay, a second son to my mother. To me, a - " I struggle for words, blushing in spite of myself. Why can't I find the words?

"Not a brother, I think," Hunfred says softly. "He does not look at you as a brother looks at a sister."

Swallowing a lump in my throat, I shake my head in agreement. "No… no, he does not."

"And your feelings for him?" Hunfred presses.

I turn on him with more vehemence than I mean to. "Are none other than those of a dear friend who owes him much thanks for all he has done for my family, and for me. Though he once proposed to me, I refused him. I do not love him but as a friend, if that is what you are asking!"

My face red from shame at this interrogation, I make a move towards the door, but Hunfred catches my arm and pulls me back. "Wait, Brithwyn, stay," he says gently. "I believe you. I only wanted to make sure that I was not infringing upon an existing understanding between you and my friend."

"And now that you are sure?" I ask tremulously, looking up at him, my heart pounding as I remember the feeling of his kiss.

He slides his arms around me and pulls me to him. "I want to court you," he says, "Nay, I want to marry you and I will say it outright."

I smile at him happily, stupidly, though I am suddenly shot through with pain. It must read on my face, for he asks, "What is it?"

"I swore I would never marry a rider of the Rohirrim," I whisper ashamedly, my hands closing around the folds of his tunic. "And now I wish I had a way around it."

"Change your mind," he says simply, kissing my eyelids. "Marry me."

"I cannot," I murmur, turning my face away.

"Why not?" he asks, letting go of me and stepping away, clenching his fists. "You are making excuses, I think. Do you not want me?"

"You know I do," I say tremulously, reaching out to him as if to draw him back to me. "Listen to me. My mother married a warrior. He belonged to one of the largest and strongest _éoreds._ He died in battle, leaving her destitute with two young children to raise. It broke her heart and her will, leaving nothing but a shell of a mother to me and my sister. My father left left all of us to struggle onwards, barely making it through each winter. He left," I sob, suddenly. I have not wept for my father in years. "I have seen what marriage to a warrior brings."

A muscle works in his jaw. "I am a warrior."

"As is Éothain," I say before I can stop myself.

"Is this the reason you gave him?" Hunfred asks suddenly, pushing angrily past me to kick at the wall. I am shocked by his passion. He is always so light-hearted, so teasing. I did not expect this depth, this inner violence from him. It frightens me and intrigues me all at once.

"Yes, but I did not love him,' I reason appeasingly. I take a breath. "Not like I love you."

Stunned, he meets my gaze for a moment before he throws open his arms as if to show himself off. "A warrior is what I am, Brithwyn. You cannot love me and hate what I am."

"I hate that what you are might tear you away from me," I whisper, folding my arms around my waist protectively.

"Marry me, and I promise you will be cared for," he says, catching my arms and drawing me to him. "Marry me, Brithwyn."

His closeness is sweet. I kiss him hard on the mouth and hope that he understands.

"Let me think about it."

He nods, but I see a guarded look appear behind his green eyes as he bids his leave of me. What have I done?

—


	4. Dark Times

4\. Dark Times

 _Hunfred_

I wait and wait for Brithwyn's word, but it does not come. She said she would think about it, but now I wonder if she could not be straight with me in her refusal.

She loves me, she says. Why will she not wed me?

But all my agony does not seem to matter to the world, for soon I am called away from Edoras. There are more and more foul creatures from the dark places of the world crossing into our lands and Lord Éomer's company is needed to secure the borders. I am duty-bound to go, and would go gladly were it not for Brithwyn.

I cannot keep it from her and leave without a word. I will not. So I confront her one last time. I find her as she works in the garden, Isemay at her side. She looks up when I come to the gate and apprehension fills her eyes at the look on my face. "Isemay, go inside," she says.

"But —" the girl protests.

"Go!" Brithwyn exclaims firmly, almost shrieking. With a childish huff, Isemay gets up and throws her tools on the ground and stomps inside. Brithwyn's face is one of consternation.

"Ugh, little sisters," she exclaims, getting up and brushing the dirt from her skirt. "She is the thorn in my side."

"I was happy to be well rid of mine when I left the Wold," I say with a grin, "But now I miss them more than I care to admit."

"Would you go back?" she asks me, coming to stand beside me, her hand on the arch of the gate between us.

"There are reasons to linger in Edoras, and not many, save my sisters, to return to my childhood home."

She smiles and leans across the gate, a heartbeat away, her mouth inches from mine. "And will you linger, then, Hunfred of the Wold?"

I bow my head, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. What I came here to tell her I would rather not say. But I know that I must. "I must away tomorrow morn."

Her face falls and she takes a step back. "I see."

"I have to go with Lord Éomer. We are needed to secure the borders. These are dark times, Brithwyn."

She looks at her hands, resting there on the gate and I try to reach out to touch them but she yanks them away. I sigh.

"Well, go, then. You are eager to go," she says brusquely.

"Nay. Not eager. Never eager to leave here, now. Were it up to me, I would not leave you, Brithwyn, but duty says I must." I reach across the gate again grab her hand. She does not resist, although her hand is limp in mine. "Brithwyn, please look at me."

After a moment, her eyes meet mine. They are sad and angry all at once.

"I would stay here with you gladly but what could I do to provide for us?" I ask her, tracing my thumb across her palm. "This is not only my honor-bound duty, but my livelihood as well. I have no land to farm or other trade to make my way in the world. This is what I do, what I have been glad to do."

"Then you must do it," she says matter-of-factly. "If this is so, then I see no other course."

"I intend to," I say. "But I had hoped an answer from you before I leave."

She folds her arms across her chest and meets my eyes. "I have no answer for you."

"Try, Brithwyn. Yes… or no." I open the gate that divides us, and pull her close, looking deep into her face. My hands grip her waist, holding her against me,

She juts her jaw forward and doesn't answer, staring at me with wide eyes. "Why are you doing this?" she asks.

"It is not a difficult question. Yes, you will wed me, or no, you will not," I say. I place my hand on her face and kiss her deeply, leaving her breathless when I pull away. "I love you. You love me - or at least I thought you did. Perhaps you don't. Perhaps it is another that you love. Perhaps you toy with me."

She raises a hand as if to slap my face, but doesn't, instead letting her hand fall to her side, her cheeks high in color. I bow my head, cowed.

"I'm sorry," I murmur.

"You need an answer," she says after a moment. I raise my eyes, and she looks at me, her face expressionless. My heart sinks.

"If an answer is what you need, then, the answer is no."

"No?" I ask in shock.

"No, Hunfred, I will not marry you." She watches my face for the briefest moment, and then turns away and begins to walk quickly back into the house, leaving me with a raw and bitter feeling in my chest. I do not understand.

—-

 _Brithwyn_

I maintain my composure as I leave Hunfred at the gate, but once inside my house, I collapse against the door, sobbing. I will never be happy. I will never, ever be happy. I have hurt the only man I've ever loved. I cannot let myself have him.

"Brithywn!" Mama exclaims from the bed, and my little sister gets up from her chair and is by my side in an instant, taking me in her arms, her head against my chest. "What happened?"

"He's leaving," I cry hopelessly once I can finally manage a breath to speak, "And I am going to die an old virgin."

"Well, didn't he ask you to marry him?" Isemay asks, holding me tighter. "I thought he would."

"He did - and I refused," I manage between my hiccuping sobs. "I refused."

"Have you gone completely mad?" Mama exclaims, "You love this man, and he loves you, and you aren't getting any younger and we cannot possibly get any poorer - you had best take whatever you can get, you foolish child!"

"Mama!" I shriek, horrified but also amazed in spite of myself. My mother hasn't said anything so motherlike to me in years. "He would go away and die and leave me with nothing, like our father left you."

"Brithwyn, you should be ashamed of yourself," my mother says sternly, pulling herself up to her full seated height. Although I know she cannot see me clearly in this light, with her vision so afflicted, it seems as if she gazes right into my eyes. "Your father did not abandon us. He died in battle to protect us. He loved you - you, my daughter - so much that he gave his life to keep you safe." Mama's cheeks are now wet with tears of passion and, overexerted, she begins to cough violently. Immediately, Isemay and I rush to her side to aid her and just like that, the conversation is over.

But my mother's words haunt me when later on, when night has fallen, I step outside and take my restless, broken and weary heart on a walk. Yes, my father, a man I now can barely remember, would never have left me. Hunfred would never leave me willingly. But I know that I could never bear to be his widow. Better - safer, even - to never be his wife, if the mere pain of his leaving to defend our borders leaves me quaking in silent fear. It is that which slays me, I realize, coming to a halt beside the well where Hunfred first caused my heart to stop in my chest. Not my stubborn adherence to a silly vow made by a near child missing her father, but the real fear behind it: that I would be left alone, having known him and lost him.

He could die before I see him again.

The thought strikes me for the first time clearly. Hunfred leaving means Hunfred will be in danger. My knees grow weak and I put my hand out and catch the edge of the well, bracing myself as hot tears flow from my eyes and racking sobs tear my chest in two. Oh, Valar, protect him. Help me. Give us a way.

—

 _Éothain_

Our horses tire, though they are hearty steeds, and we cannot ride hard in pursuit of orcs unyieldingly, so our progress has slowed for the moment and our company rides at a resting pace. I am lost in thought, as I so often am these days, although it seems to me that I think of nothing, turning over questions and images in my mind that have plagued me so long they cease to hold meaning, when Hunfred pulls up beside me. Oh, what now, from this man I once called friend, before he pursued a woman towards whom he knew I held affection? I have little to say to him and were I not his comrade in arms I would urge my horse forward and leave him behind. But that would not be honorable. And I intend to be so.

"I proposed to Brithwyn," Hunfred says to me.

I grit my teeth and stare ahead between my horse's ears. "Yes, I heard."

"She rejects me," he adds, and I glance at him with a raised brow.

"Is that so?"

"I am sure that you heard as much of her answer as of my question," Hunfred replies. "Word travels fast in Edoras, even of a stranger's humiliation."

I chuckle, although I do not intend it meanly, it comes out so. Perhaps I am glad that she rejected this man. After all, I have known much jealousy at his hands these past months.

"Why?" he asks softly, unfazed. "You surely know better than me."

I do know, if what she once told me is still true. But I am not certain of anything, anymore. "Why should I help you, Hunfred?" I ask after a time.

"I believe you care for her," he replies, "And if you care for her, you would wish her joy."

"I do," I retort, unwilling to be lectured, "I wish her all the joy in the world."

"Then would you tell me why so I might at least reason with her?"

"I will tell you why so you might leave her in peace," I snap, angered at the presumption that this man has, that he could somehow bring her joy that I could not. "Her father was slain in battle and her grieving mother lost her will to fight. Brithwyn's childhood was all too brief."

"I know this. But I understand not what that has to do with it," Hunfred muses,

"She will not let herself be made a widow to war." I glance at him firmly. "And no one can sway Brithwyn's stubborn spirit, not even you."

I see a muscle work in his jaw. "I see," he murmurs, although not to me, and with that he says no more. I nod to him, and urge my horse forward under the pretense of seeking out Éomer. But no sooner am I abreast with him when we hear a shout. One of our trackers has caught wind of the party of orcs we seek to destroy. So the time for thoughts of women and marriage has ended. It is time to do our work. It will be hard, and dangerous, and bloody. And for once, I am glad of it.


End file.
